


the kindhearted approach

by ivelostmyspectacles



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Compulsion, Domestic Violence, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Gen, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Jealousy, M/M, Protectiveness, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 16:21:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18594958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ivelostmyspectacles/pseuds/ivelostmyspectacles
Summary: When Martin hands him a cup of tea, and there are bruises on his wrist, something in Jon goes cold.





	the kindhearted approach

**Author's Note:**

> obv this is a fic about emotional/physical manipulation and abuse! all abuse happens off screen but the boyfriend shows up to be verbally scummy, so be prewarned!
> 
> also: written a bit before I started learning more about Jon's compulsion so there's a bit of _compulsion misinterpretation_ but let's pretend **edit during s4: welp**

“Christ, Martin, that’s a nasty bruise.”

The words filter through just enough to get his attention. Jon glances up from the copies he’s just run, still warm from print, in time to see Martin wrench his shirt down. ‘Nasty bruise’ doesn’t equate to anything good in their line of work, but he’s certain none of Martin’s follow-ups have gone poorly. He would have _heard._

Anyway, he doesn’t see the bruise for Martin fixing his shirt, and it’s laughed off, anyway.

“Yyyyyeah, took a tumble down the stairs. It was icy, and, uh, a bit unexpected.”

“Yes, icy stairsteps in January. Who could have guessed?”

“Ha. Ha. Anyway, weren’t you meant to be _doing_ something?”

Jon keeps walking; he’s got plenty to keep himself busy without the distraction of idle gossip.

 

 

“Oh, Martin, hold on–” Martin breathes in sharply enough when Jon grabs his arm, that he immediately lets go. “– er, sorry, just… you’ll need these notes.”

Martin nods, like he’s pretending nothing’s happened. “You’re fine, just– just a bruise. Banged it into the microwave at home.”

Jon raises an eyebrow. “In a hurry for dinner, then?”

Martin laughs slightly, tucking the files under his arm. “Just clumsy, I guess. Anything else, Jon?” he asks, and Jon shakes his head.

“That’s all.”

“Right. I’ll get on this, then.”

Jon nods and lets him go. He still frowns as he watches the man rub his arm on the way back to his own desk.

 

 

“What’s on your neck?”

Martin makes a noise, reaching to pull his shirt up further along his neck. “Nothing.”

Melanie’s on the case, now, though. “Is that a _hickey?_ Martin Blackwood!”

“No!” Martin splutters. He sinks a little lower in his seat when he notices Jon’s looking at him. “It’s really not,” he mutters.

“Oh, leave him alone.” Tim hasn’t looked up from work. He hasn’t looked up to take a bite of their takeaway, either, so it’s not much indication of him not listening– or, in this case, _actually_ listening. “He can do whatever he wants with his boyfriend. You know they _probably_ actually have sex.”

Jon sighs into his noodles, and regrets not eating in his office. Group work sessions always turn to some unrelated, unnecessary topic and sex is _not_ high up on his list of things he wants to listen to conversations about.

“Yeah, but, he came to work with a _hickey,”_ Melanie says, and nudges Martin. She is, as far as Jon can tell, very clearly teasing him, as she had expressed a desire for Martin’s happiness when his dating escapades had been revealed some weeks ago.

Martin curls his hands around his mug of tea. “It’s not a hickey,” he says, again, and eventually, thankfully, the topic is dropped.

If he thinks Martin seems a little subdued the rest of the evening, Jon keeps it to himself.

 

 

“Martin.”

Martin full-body _flinches,_ jerking away from Jon so quickly it nearly startles him off the sofa as well. “Oh, God– George, you scared me.”

“Sorry.”

Jon and George share a nod; he’s amicable enough, Martin’s boyfriend, but it’s business and personal, and Jon doesn’t really want the details. He really… really does not want the details.

“You were due upstairs five minutes ago,” George says, “so I came looking.”

“Oh, uh, s–sorry, George.” Martin shifts the mountains of their paperwork aside, going to refile the ones Jon hadn’t needed. “Got lost in work. Gimme a sec, I’ll just put these away and grab my coat.”

“I already got the things from your desk.”

“Oh– thanks.”

“Yeah.” George loops an arm around Martin’s waist. Jon looks back at his own transcripts. “Leave the work to your boss, huh? We’re due on our dinner date.”

“Yeah…” Martin hesitates, but Jon doesn’t look up. He is feigning unconcern, as if personal displays of affection from his assistants and their partners _aren’t_ frowned upon at the Institute. “Uh, you got this, Jon?”

Now he does look up, only because he’s been directly spoken to. “Yes, of course. Tim and I can handle it. Go, Martin, we’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Right,” Martin says after a half second, and they go.

Barely ten seconds go by before Tim speaks up. “Oooookay, that was weird.”

“What?” Jon’s staring at the handwriting in front of him, trying to remember where he’s seen it from before. Another witness statement, from somewhere in this mess. But he can't… focus, for some reason. “Martin and his boyfriend being _romantic?_ I need hardly remind you, they’re having _sex,_ Tim,” he says dryly, plucking Tim’s old gossip from his mind as he reaches for a post-it flag.

“Yeah, except he jumped like he was shot when he turned up, and went gibbery afterwards,” Tim says. “That doesn’t strike you as a _little_ bit odd for someone he’s been dating for, what, two months?”

… maybe. The reaction had been a little… extreme, but then, Jon hadn’t noticed the man walk in the room, either. Everything else tended to fall away when _he_ was focused, and Martin could be the same. Not usually, but…

He shakes the thought away. There’s work to do. “I wouldn’t know,” he replies, because he never _has_ been good at dating, and that’s the end of that.

… it isn’t, though, and it bothers him for the rest of the night.

 

 

Martin’s phone vibrating for the umpteenth time threatens to snap the very fragile tendrils of what remains to Jon’s nerves.

_“Martin.”_

“Sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll put it on silent.”

“Who’s _texting_ you?”

“George,” Martin says. This time, Jon doesn’t mistake the unhappiness in his voice. He looks up, and Martin adds quickly, “just, you know, all the _weird_ stuff that goes on with us, he gets worried when I stay late. Or don’t text back. It’s good, really, though, right? He cares. At least _someone_ does.” The last part is muttered under his breath.

Jon blinks.

Martin huffs a breath and shakes his head. “Nevermind. Sorry, just feeling kinda… I dunno. Some kind of weird, lately. Think it’s all this weird stuff happening.”

“It’s getting to you?” are the words that slip out. Jon… hadn’t precisely decided to say them, but now he’s left with a vaguely unsatisfied feeling for having done so. He wants to ask something _else,_ he thinks… but it’s none of his business. It really, truly is not.

Martin shrugs. His phone lights up, and his eyes slide to the screen. “Just a bit much, I suppose?” He unlocks the screen and sends off a one-handed text Jon can't read from this angle. But then he looks back at Jon, and smiles softly, and says, “but it doesn’t matter, right? We’ll figure it out. We always do.”

Jon murmurs some agreement, thinks back to Tim’s comment about Martin’s behavior and a vague remark he’d heard from Melanie about a row she’d overheard Martin and George having outside the Institute one night, and goes back to work. It’s not his business, and it’s not his place.

He keeps Martin at the Institute longer than strictly necessary, and pretends he doesn’t notice the man texting the rest of the evening. For both of their sakes.

 

 

When Martin hands him a cup of tea, and there are bruises on his wrist, something in Jon goes cold.

He grabs Martin’s hand without warning; Martin jumps and then deflates as Jon aligns two fingers and his thumb with the three, small bruises visible. They match almost perfectly, and if Jon were to guess, he’d imagine there would be two more to match hidden beneath his cuffs. Bruises, from all five fingertips, left from being held tightly enough to leave marks.

Jon doesn’t try to ask. Instead, he makes a statement. “He did this to you.”

Martin looks stricken, and tries to pull his wrist away. Jon doesn’t let him. He doesn’t grip tightly, or put pressure on the bruises so as not to hurt him further; instead, he slips his fingers down to tangle with Martin’s, because that seems safer, and better, and _right._

He grits his teeth when Martin starts to stammer off some excuse. He doesn’t hear it, really, but catches something about _‘the way he is’_ and _‘fine,’_ neither of which should be the words coming from Martin’s mouth.

His own voice comes out oddly calm. Maybe it’s the ice in his veins that causes it. “Him doing this is _not_ fine, Martin.”

“No, it’s just– you know, me and him have… we’ve done stuff, and I–”

“– have never struck me as the type to enjoy _pain,”_ Jon interrupts flatly. If Martin is trying to make this about _sex,_ it isn’t going to _work._ He’ll be the first to admit he doesn’t know much about the bondage, discipline, sadism, masochism part of the sexual community, but he _highly doubts_ the excuse holds up and cuts it off before Martin can try to further the lie.

Martin’s cheeks still go pink as if this is a normal, sex related conversation. He finally pulls his hand away from Jon and steps back.

Jon stands.

“I–I should go. There’s work… I’ve–I’ve got work.” Martin almost trips as he strides for the door. “Enjoy your tea.”

“Martin– _shit,_ Martin.” He doesn’t catch him before he can dodge out of the office. But he lets him go, anyway. He doesn’t think it would be worth it to go after him. He thinks Martin would be even less inclined to talk about it now, _because_ Jon had forced the topic.

Not that he knows what he’s supposed to say. He just wants to keep Martin as far away from that man as possible.

“You noticed, right.” Melanie’s standing behind him, arms crossed, forehead wrinkled in concern. She looks worried, and severe, and her expression doesn’t lighten as she watches Martin all but flee the minor confrontation. “You noticed them, too. I thought, maybe, the last times, I was looking too hard. You know, you get paranoid with all the shit you read. But Tim's noticed, and _you've_ noticed.”

“… yes.”

Perhaps there’s something in his expression that deters Melanie from stopping him as he turns back to his office. He goes, and closes the door behind him.

 

 

“Jon– Jon, _please–”_

He isn’t listening. Enough is enough. The archives are, strictly speaking, _their_ domain; they’ve got say over who comes, and goes, and who will stay _gone._ And Martin is one of his assistants, and… a very dear person. He will _not_ lose anyone else. He will not.

So, he shakes off Martin’s hand, and goes to meet up with George in the hallways.

_“Jon.”_

Tim cuts him off. _“Leave_ it, Martin.” His voice is as flat, and sounds as unemotional as Jon feels. But Jon is grateful, at least, that he has decided to step in as well.

This is going to have potentially disastrous consequences, but if Martin shows up to work with one more _goddamn bruise–_

“What do you mean, ‘leave it?!’ He’s _my–”_

“Just _shut. up.”_

“Don’t tell me to shut up!”

There’s a bit of a scuffle behind him. Jon doesn’t look back. He has the most certain feeling George knows that _they_ know… and he doesn’t care. Of course he doesn’t. He is just that kind of guy. Not for the first time, Jon wonders how he and Martin had _met._

George still has the audacity to feign innocence. “What’s going on?”

“I’m lacking in patience these days,” Jon says, and his voice is just as flat as Tim’s. “So let’s get to the point: you will leave Martin _alone._ You won’t be bothering him again.”

 _“Won’t_ I?” George’s eyes slip past Jon’s shoulder, presumably to look at Tim and Martin down the corridor. “Don’t you think Martin should have a say for himself?”

“Odd, I didn’t think you were keen on him having a say about anything.”

George raises his eyebrows. For the first time, Jon falters. What is he doing? Confrontation is not his strong suit. Paranoia gets you far enough with that regard, but… then again, the anger does, too, he supposes. Because he _is_ angry.

He’d watched the color drain from Martin’s face, and looked up to predictably see George coming to collect him once again, and Jon’s feet had just… taken him to meet him before he could.

There are probably better ways to solve this. There are probably better, _healthier_ ways, ones that don’t involve him and Tim physically stepping between the two of them. (If Melanie were here at the moment, she would be livid. Jon is quietly glad that she is _not_ here for this, however.) But he’s angry, now. He refuses to have another person he cares too deeply for be hurt, and this time, by a…… human. This time, he had to step in.

“Listen, _Jon,”_ George says, and the way he says it prickles at the hair on the nape of Jon’s neck, “so maybe these archives are yours. Maybe, from nine to five, you get Martin Blackwood to yourself. Work him ragged with all these spooky cases–” Jon still _hates_ that word– “and play at being his boss. Otherwise? Nah. You had your chance. He waited for _ages_ for you. Trusted you. Believed in you. Practically signed his soul to you, and you _disregarded_ it. So, you’re done, Archivist. Martin’s mine.”

Something snaps. A rare enough thing, calm fury that Jon forgets he’s capable of sometimes. His fist jerks forward, aiming for jaw or teeth or nose, but misses. There’s a flurry of movement, and an explosion of pain, then; Jon crashes down to the floor with blood streaming from his own nose before he has time to fully rationalize _he’s_ the one who’s been punched.

_“Jon!”_

“Martin, _no–_ ow, _fuck!”_

Jon barely has time to press his shirt sleeve to his nose to stopper the flow before Martin crashes to his knees beside him. Footsteps follow behind; Tim, probably, following suit.

“Jon– George, just– leave him _alone,”_ Martin hisses, hands hovering uselessly. One hand settles on Jon’s shoulder, and the tension flares again.

Vaguely, in the very back of his mind, Jon wonders how many times George has been looking at Martin like _that_ over the past few months.

“We’ve just– it’s been a rough day, alright–” Martin’s babbling.

Jon holds up a hand to stop him, and to stop Tim, who looks ready to intervene in the physical sense himself. The blood’s still pouring from his nose. It’s likely broken. He can taste the copper on his lips as he parts them to continue. “You’ll leave Martin alone,” he says. The words come very, very steady. “Do you understand?”

“You can’t protect him forever, you know.”

His hand shoots out to grab a fistful of Tim’s shirt as the man starts forward. He doesn’t let go. Martin’s hand is still on his shoulder. “You will not contact Martin again, in any capacity, to see, or speak with him.” Something shifts. Jon almost _hears_ it, although it isn’t a physical presence. And so, he asks a question. “Do I make myself clear?”

George seems to forget his words. The room is quiet. Tim and Martin have gone still at his sides, and Jon isn’t even aware of his own breathing. Just the blood, and the quiet, quiet rage.

“Will you attempt further contact with Martin?” he asks, and it’s a long, strained moment before George finally speaks.

 _“No,”_ he spits, and looks terrified and infuriated all at once.

“You will not contact, visit, or otherwise associate with _any_ of us again, correct?”

The word sounds like it pains him when he snarls _“ … correct.”_

Jon, briefly, hopes it does hurt.

“Get out,” he says aloud, instead.

It’s only after George vanishes around a corner that the veil slips, and feeling comes rushing back to Jon. It's like being hit by a train. The residual effects of true anger. Weak knees and a pounding heart. And the pain, _Christ,_ the pain, throbbing in the center of his face. The blood tastes vile, and he has to take a steadying breath not to retch.

“… what the _hell?”_ Tim asks, and Jon finally lets go of his shirt to cup both hands around his still bleeding nose.

_“Shit.”_

“J–Jon–” Martin looks rattled. Sounds rattled. Jon vaguely wonders for which reason, now. “Oh, God, Jon, hold on–” He jumps to his feet and darts over to the nearest desk for a box of tissues. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry–”

“Would you _stop apologizing?”_ Tim snaps. It lacks the vehemence it might have. “Your boyfriend was _beating you,_ Martin, you’re the _last_ person who needs to apologize.”

“I know, I just, I’m sorry–” Martin clams up, probably after a _look._ Only for a moment. “J–Jon, here. Let me see.”

He’s finding it hard to focus now. He’s no longer in control; he’s just in _pain._ Yes, he’s been punched before, but not with _this_ amount of suffering. That’s how he can tell it’s broken, really.

“You should go to A&E.” Martin gently tugs the bloodied wad of tissues from Jon’s hand to dab another, pristine handful to his nose. “You should definitely go to A&E–”

“There’s nothing to be done, Martin,” he says, except his voice comes out thick, and his nose already feels blocked, and Martin’s hand and tissues are near his mouth. It all comes out muffled.

“Er– sorry, I’m not–”

He takes the tissues back from Martin, and then catches ahold of Martin’s hand before he can pull away. Martin goes still, and Jon repeats himself. “There’s nothing to be done for it, just as long as it stops bleeding.”

George, as much as he is loathe to admit, had been right about one thing. Jon had missed his chance. He hadn’t noticed… he hadn’t _realized…_ or maybe he had, and his own culmination of complicated and hazy emotions had taken Martin finding someone _else_ as the catalyst to finally manifest. He didn’t know. He still doesn’t.

He does know Martin deserves better, better than George, and better than himself.

“… right,” Tim says sharply. “I’ll just– stand here and be third wheel, yeah. Good, old Tim, always up for that.” He huffs. “I’m… going to make sure he left,” he mutters, and Jon doesn’t stop him when he tries to leave this time. “And… I'll get some ice for your nose.  Be careful with Martin, Jon. You'll want to watch your shins.”

Jon watches him go, feeling dizzy. Then, he turns to Martin and tries to raise his eyebrows through the pain.

“I… he wouldn’t let me go, you got punched and I just sorta… kicked him.” Martin fidgets, and then shifts to sit proper on the floor. He doesn’t pull his hand away, although their fingers are slick with blood, and Jon tightens his hold to compensate. Martin’s voice wavers, but he continues. “A bit. I’ll have to apologize, I just _panicked–”_

He barely manages a tired laugh. He feels so very drained. “He’ll get over it, I’m sure…” Being able to slump slightly, a measure to stopping the nosebleed, feels divine. He closes his eyes.

“… sorry,” Martin says, and Jon opens them again. “I know you don't want me to say that,” he says, plucking Jon's glasses from where they'd landed, an arms length away. He places them on his lap, and uses the hand that isn't in Jon's to fold them up. A miracle they hadn't broken. “But I couldn't… _do_ anything. It's stupid. We've been through _so_ much, but I couldn't…”

This isn't a conversation he thinks Martin is ready to have. Or maybe it's one _he's_ not ready to have himself, not that that matters. “Martin…”

“You and Melanie, and Tim, you all figured it out and even then, I was just… he's a good guy, Jon, he was… most of the time. And I _know,_ I know how _stupid_ that sounds, and I _hate_ it, but I _couldn't–”_ He sucks in a breath. It rattles. “I couldn't fight it this time, Jon. I'm _so_ sorry–”

Ridiculous. Martin was still apologizing. Sitting there comforting _Jon_ while he still had bruises on his skin. Blindingly loyal Martin, who had deserved so much more than an inattentive Archivist and the demons that had followed.

He grips Martin's hand, hard. He tries to impress the words onto him by squeezing his hand, and then raising their conjoined fingers to clumsily pass his knuckles against Martin's cheek. He's never been good at this. For Martin's sake, he wishes he was.

But maybe it's enough. Martin makes a tiny sound, wounded. Raw. When he does move, and it does take a long moment, he shudders, and turns his face into the press of Jon's hand there.

Jon is woozy, and Martin might be broken beyond repair. But he hopes not. He hopes not.

Martin jerks away when Tim returns; Jon wonders how long they've been sitting like that, how long he's been comforting Martin in the semi-intimate way he is. He wonders how long Tim's been standing there before he finally clears his throat and startles Martin away. It probably doesn't matter.

“Got your ice,” Tim mutters, and Jon takes it, and allows them to help him back to his feet with an uttered thanks. He pretends he doesn't hear him mumble “you've got blood on your face” to Martin, and pretends Martin doesn't anxiously turn away to wipe it off, or wipe his eyes while he's at it.

Tim’s desk is the closest, so Jon lets them help him there. Martin finds him some juice, like he’s given blood instead of lost it, and when the nosebleed finally stops, he gingerly sips on that and does not put his head down like he wants to. He still isn’t quite sure what’s making him feel so ill: the broken nose, or the compulsion, or Martin’s situation in general. Either way, he is tired, and nauseous, and will need a cab home, in this state.

“How…” Martin hesitates at the side of the desk. He’s holding a mug of tea now, that he quickly sits down when he notices Jon staring at it. “How are you feeling…?”

Jon forces himself upright enough to pick up the mug. “I can safely say I’ve had worse,” he says, and nearly sags again in something like relief from the recognizable, comforting taste of the tea Martin makes. Juice is no substitute, and he is craving familiarity. “I’ll get a cab back, once I drink this. Thank you, Martin.”

“I can take you home.” It’s immediate, but then Martin backtracks. A little. “Just, your car’s here, right? I can drive you, and… save you the trouble.”

He thinks he should argue, and then he doesn’t. The truth is that he doesn’t want to, and wouldn’t have the strength to even if he did. “I’ll have to get my keys,” he says instead.

“I’ll get them.” Martin steps back. “Anything else?”

“Just my coat.”

“Got it. Be right back.”

The drive home is quiet. Jon rests his head against the passenger window and luxuriates in the silence, and in watching Martin from the corner of his eye.

“Just here is fine,” he says eventually, and Martin murmurs a confirmation and puts the car in park. “Thank you.”

“Yeah… d’you, um, need help inside?” Martin squints at him. “You still look pretty out of it.”

It’s mostly because of the hypocrisy that Jon laughs. Martin telling _him_ that. It’s true, but the irony isn’t lost on him. “That’s a word for it,” he says quietly. It isn’t an affirmation, but Martin must take it as one, because he throws off his seatbelt and starts to get out of the car before Jon can stop him. “I’m _fine,_ Martin.” But that comes out too late, and Martin’s face screws up in disbelief when Jon repeats it, joining him outside of the car. “I’m fine.”

“You’re still covered in blood, how could you possibly be _fine?”_

“It’s _dried_ blood.”

Martin makes a disgruntled noise.

“And I’ve been well taken care of,” Jon adds, which does a little to soften the waves of discontent radiating from by his side. Martin unlocks the door, and Jon carefully goes to flip the lightswitch. They're both left blinking from the brightness, and Jon almost scrunches his nose before he remembers, quite plainly, what a terrible idea that is. His tiny noise of pain draws Martin another half step into his orbit, anxiety and concern flashing across his face. “It’s nothing ice and a change of clothes won’t fix,” Jon says, raising his fingers gingerly to the bridge of his nose. He will need more ice for the swelling, and honestly he _will_ be improved if he can wash his face and get _out_ of this shirt. “You can go home, Martin, I’ll be fine.”

Martin’s laughter sounds little more than a wheeze, a hollow imitation of humor, Jon thinks. “Y–Yeah, I’m not sure I really… _want_ to go home, yet… y’know?”

He doesn’t. Not really. That being said– and for entirely different reasons– Jon doesn’t want him to go back to his flat by himself, either. Not while this is still so fresh on their minds, and not while Martin is still affected enough to _not_ be acting like their usual Martin. It’s probably a recipe for disaster to send him away. It’s probably one to ask him to stay.

“… close the door, at least, then,” he says, anyway, and Martin’s face goes tentatively hopeful.

“You need me to do something?” he asks. He’s _more_ than _just_ tentatively hopeful, even.

Jon’s struck with the fact that Martin thinks he needs to be _doing_ something for him, and not that he’s asking him to stay purely because he _wants_ him to be there. Which is… _fair._ Martin has been his assistant for some time now. It hadn’t been so long ago that he’d truly started to call him _friend_ in his mind, whether or not he verbally shared such information, but… Martin had always done, and probably would do, whatever Jon needed. A lopsided exchange.

“No,” he says, and Martin’s face falls. “But you should stay, anyway,” he adds, after a tiny pause, and doesn’t look for the expression on Martin’s face before he turns away. “I’m going to wash up. You can sleep, if you’d like. I’ll take the sofa.”

“Wait, I–” Martin’s voice is flustered as it floats down the hall. “I didn’t mean stay _overnight,_ that’s– I’m not going to kick you out of your _bed,_ Jon.”

“On the scale of who deserves it most, I’d say you’re in slightly more need of the _comfort_ of the thing.”

“Me– Jon, you have a _broken nose.”_

 _And you’ve likely had a broken heart,_ he doesn’t say. “All the more reason for me to stay on the sofa. I’ll have to sleep with my head propped, anyway,” is what he does say, instead. It is safer, and true.

“I don’t _need–”_

 _“I_ want you to,” Jon interrupts, brisk, and Martin goes quiet.

Jon is not _good_ at this. And the things he’s thinking are… out of character, for him, so he doesn’t say them aloud. Martin’s already had enough of a day without them. And, that aside, Jon’s still trying to figure it out for himself. He just knows, at this exact moment, he wants Martin to stay, and he wants him to be able to _relax_ in the presence of someone who is, hopefully, slightly less dangerous than the man he had been seeing up until now.

(He’s not sure he’s much better than George to begin with, in regards to _hurting Martin._ Major in some ways. Nonexistent in others. Jon doesn’t want to think about it.)

Martin responds, and finally sounds the way that speaks of him having held himself together the past few months. “… are you sure…?”

“Positive.” He ignores the hollow ache in his chest, and pats his face dry. “I think I’m having an early night, anyway. You should as well.”

“Jon…”

He cuts him off before he can keep protesting. “I don’t have anything that you can change into, but the bedroom is back here.” He goes ahead, to collect his own pajamas. It’s chilly enough without a shirt, and he’s just giving the radiator a kick when Martin edges around the doorway. “It’s a bit cold at the start, but it heats up quickly. I’ve extra blankets if you need them in the meantime.”

Martin opens his mouth. Closes it again, and glances away as Jon carefully slips his sleep shirt on. “Jon… you don’t have to–”

“I want to.”

Martin makes an incomprehensible noise, half strangled and overly emotional.

“Did you want to wash up beforehand?”

“No, I’m… unless I’ve still got your blood…?”

Jon shakes his head.

“Oh. No, then, I think. I think I’ll just… lay down. For a bit, I guess?”

“Right. Just–” He shoves a stack of newspapers he’s been using as a door jamb away from his bedroom door. “– let me know if you need anything.”

“Thank you, Jon…”

Martin still sounds a bit miserable. Jon doesn’t think he’ll be able to convince him, right now, that he _does_ want to do this for him. So, right now, he lets it go. “Yes. Goodnight, Martin.”

Martin mumbles a _“night,”_ and Jon pulls the door shut behind him as he leaves the room.

It’s a decent thing it’s late already, he thinks. It’s also a good thing they had ordered pizza in while working tonight. He doesn’t think either of them would be able to touch food right now. And the hour, earlier than usual for him notwithstanding, is excuse enough to coax Martin into getting a good night’s sleep. It’s excuse enough for him to fold onto the sofa himself, in more pain than he wants to let on. It’s… it’s been a long day.

It becomes quickly aware that it is going to be a long night as well. The couch is uncomfortable. He’s uncomfortable. He is emotionally and mentally drained, and he’s managing to coax maybe an hour, two hours of sleep at a time. He’s going to be absolute rubbish at work. Oddly enough, _that_ thought doesn’t exactly relax him enough to sleep, either.

He gives up at half one, when it’s past time for another dose of painkillers. For a minute or two, he seriously considers the extra strength ones that he’d been prescribed after the Prentiss attack, the ones he had never taken. In the end, he doesn’t, for the same reason he hadn’t the first time: they’ll make him groggy, and muddle his thinking. He can’t afford it. So he swallows two ibuprofen with a glass of water instead, and goes to get the gel pack from the freezer.

“… Jon?”

He’s barely returned to the sofa when Martin shows up; he jumps a little despite the fact that he knows he’s staying there. It’s… strange, having someone in the house. He is so very used to solitude. “Martin.” He greets him like he does in the office, like it’s not half past one and they’re both at Jon’s flat. “Can’t sleep, either?” he adds, as if that isn’t an obvious question.

“No. Not really.” Not for lack of trying, though, evidently. He’s far more rumpled than a few hours ago; he’s no longer wearing his jumper, but the button down is hopelessly wrinkled from a night of presumed tossing and turning, and his hair’s mussed from the attempts at sleep. He runs his fingers through it, as his body heaves with a sigh. “I turned the valve in there, uh, I know you said it got hot quick, but… wasn’t expecting it to get so warm. I’ll turn it back before I leave.”

“No wonder you couldn’t sleep.”

“I like to be warm.” He winds around the coffee table, and Jon shifts to make room on the sofa. “Cozy, yeah? But I dunno. I think maybe it’s your bed, too? Oh, God, I didn’t mean– sorry, that’s ungrateful. It’s just… _soft?_ Softer than I thought you’d have.”

“And you’ve… thought about my mattress… often, then?”

Martin makes a dismissive noise, and shifts on the couch. “That’s not what I meant.”

“I’m… teasing?”

“… _are_ you?”

“Yes?” Jon says hesitantly. “I was attempting to, anyway?”

But Martin laughs, slumping back into the cushions. _“I’m_ joking now.”

“Oh.” He’s bad at cues. He thinks Martin should know that by now. But it doesn’t really matter. It’s really not important. “Sorry.”

“Not _that_ big of a deal.”

 _That’s not…_ Jon lowers the ice pack from his nose. It’s a sideway glance at Martin, then, lips twitching towards a frown. That _hadn’t_ been what he’d been apologizing for. But then he supposes he’s missed the cue for that, too. He looks back ahead, and resituates the ice. “That’s not what I meant.”

Martin seems to go quiet, despite not saying anything at all. Then, “… oh.” His voice comes out thin. “Jon, it’s not… George, he wasn’t... he wasn’t your responsibility, yeah? I don’t… I don’t even really know how it happened.” His hands settle on his knees. “It just… did. All of it, all at once. And I couldn’t keep my head afloat.”

“I know.” Sort of. Not really, _truly,_ but isn't that what he's supposed to say? Jon hesitates– and he really hates that he’s doing that so much lately– and continues. “Although that’s not what I meant, either. _I’m_ sorry.”

“…… what?”

“For the past year and a half.” He really is not good at this. The effect is probably somewhat lessened by the fact he’s still holding an ice pack to his nose, but it’s numbing the pain until the pills can kick in. Somewhat. “I was… inattentive.”

Martin doesn’t reply. Jon has to turn his head to be sure he’s still _awake,_ but he is. He’s just staring towards the wall, or the darkened TV screen, and Jon can’t precisely make out the expression on his face.

“Martin.”

He jumps. “Err– s–sorry, it’s just, uh, self-awareness isn’t exactly your _strong_ suit, is it? I’m just a little…” He clears his throat. “I just mean… it’s fine, Jon. Things were… things have been rough.”

“Rough…” Jon echoes. It is so lacking, but so true. “Yes. But it was no excuse. You deserve better than him and me.”

“Well, it’s over an–” Martin stops. Stops speaking, stops moving, just as he’d been turning to face Jon. Almost comical, really, and Jon watches on in tired, not quite amusement. It’s like someone has flipped a switch, and all of Martin’s functions have failed. He _stares._ Stares, and stares, until Jon has to huff away his own awkwardness and turn away in mild reproach.

“What does– what does that _mean…?”_

He’s glad he’s focusing on the empty mug sat on the table. He isn’t certain he has the answer. He _is_ certain it isn’t the one Martin has been wanting, for more time than Jon had thought to realize. But it is… something. “I don’t know,” he admits softly. It’s like saying it louder would physically hurt. Maybe it would. Maybe it will. “A question I’ve been trying to puzzle out… made more complicated by my over-thinking, I’m certain.” And his own… _issues_ with connecting to people. _Dating,_ well. He and Georgie, and all. “But…”

“But…?” Martin’s voice is full of trepidation.

Part of the uncertainty comes in that Jon _wants_ to wash that trepidation away, and shield Martin from those little things. God knows he can’t hide him away from the big ones, no matter how hard he seems to try. This, at least, should be so simple.

“I was angry, of course. But before that, I suppose I might have been jealous.”

He can hear Martin _breathing._ Short, sharp breaths that are the only noise in the sitting room asides the clock ticking, and the refrigerator humming in the kitchen. Unhappy sounding things.

Jon lowers the gel pack, and tries again. If he could just make sense of it all _himself…_ “Martin–”

“You were jealous of me and him, what, dating??”

“I… must have been?” A frown. “I found myself lacking the usual obliviousness, and then was further unable to maintain the distance from your relationship as I should have been–”

“What does that mean??” Martin asks, and his voice is _high_ and breathless.

“I’m… not certain.”

_“Jon–”_

“I’m _not,_ Martin,” he says sharply. It seems to pull them both back, a little. “I’m not… I’m not _good_ at this. Everyone who’s ever spent ten minutes with me knows I’m not good with _people,_ and I’m _certainly_ not good with hashing out emotions. So all I can tell you is that I _feel,_ Martin. Something that I can’t really explain, yet. And I know _that’s_ a terrible explanation in itself, so I’m sorry.”

Martin blows out a breath like he hasn’t been breathing at all for the past minute or so. And maybe he hadn’t been. Jon isn’t sure. “Oh, Jon, I…” This time, the exhale _shakes,_ and Martin puts his face in his hands. “Okay, I know you think that _sucked,_ and it kinda did, but it’s also… I know… I–I can tell that you’re being _honest._ Because you are a _really_ bad liar.”

He has been told that before. It’s probably true, then. Especially if Martin’s the one saying it to him, since he thinks, these days, Martin’s the one who knows him best. He probably has for a long time, and Jon’s been too self-absorbed and _distracted_ to notice.

“So it wasn’t. Bad,” Martin clarifies, muffled. “It’s better than… well. But what did you mean?” He turns his head to look at him, just a little. “Him _and_ you.”

“Hm?”

“Him and you, you said I deserved better than him and you.”

“You do.”

 _“You_ haven’t hurt me. You wouldn’t hurt me.”

Jon arches an eyebrow, and Martin shrugs, sits up. They both know full well Jon _has,_ intentionally or not. Martin’s very association with _The Archivist_ has, at the very least, put him in danger more times than Jon cares to count. And, speaking from a purely _emotional_ standpoint…

“That’s different,” Martin says. “That’s just… that’s just _normal_ stuff. Not including the Archivist stuff. I mean, obviously _that’s_ not normal. But the other stuff, you didn’t… well, you know.”

“Didn’t realize?” Jon asks, dry, and Martin nods enthusiastically.

“Yeah! That.”

“That doesn’t make it better.”

“At least you haven’t _hit_ me,” Martin fires back.

It’s probably instinct, the urge to _win the argument,_ but they both wince.

“No…” Jon sighs. “But I’m not certain this level of loyalty is _healthy,_ Martin.” He isn’t quite sure why he’s trying to talk him down. He supposes… because Martin deserves to have this kind of honesty. They both do. They deserve to _both_ be healthy in their lifestyles, but Jon’s chances of that are slim these days and so he’ll settle with his assistants having the best they can, all told. Association with him is dangerous and… probably fraught with complicated emotional turmoil.

“I don’t care. I mean, I do, yeah, cheers.” He still sounds dismissive. “But I trust you. I’ve always trusted you, doesn’t matter what’s going on with the Unknowing and all that. I’m always going to trust you.”

“That’s…” Stupid. Wrong. Self-destructive. _Flattering._ “You trusted George,” he says instead, because it might hurt _more,_ but it is infinitely the safer option, he thinks.

“No, I didn’t.”

_“What?”_

“I… I dunno. I don’t think we even got that close before he started getting… possessive? Then it was just… what it was.”

There’s a question on the periphery. Jon knows he shouldn’t ask it. But then there’s been a lot of questions he shouldn’t have ever asked, especially in the past months. It’s never stopped him. He is, after all, the Archivist. He is ever on the quest for knowledge. “Did you love him?” he asks quietly, and wonders, briefly, if Martin answers willingly or compelled.

“No.”

Jon exhales.

“I liked… the idea, I think,” Martin continues. “You know, the idea of wanting to be wanted?” His laugh is small, but sad. He’d liked the idea of being loved, because Jon hadn’t paid him attention all these months. He thinks that’s the long and short of it, but he does them the favor of not saying it aloud. “Stupid. It was so stupid.”

“We all get caught up.” Especially easy to do when you were at your lowest. He would know.

“But you’re still better. A lot better. I’d still choose you. If you…” Martin falters. “If you wanted to… feel.”

Jon scoffs before he can stop himself. Martin, he thinks, takes the noise the wrong way. (It’s just, this is _pathetic._ They are both adults, both whom have experienced firsthand varying levels of hell and may be near about to face the whole _actual_ end of the universe; they’ve both dated other people, however long or short those lists may be, and they’re… doing _this.)_

“I mean,” Martin says quickly, “it doesn’t have to be now. Or ever, even. Just, if you _want–_ or would ever want–”

Jon looks away, and offers his hand.

Perhaps it is poor imitation of… _asking someone out,_ but it’s the very best he can manage, now. A more intimate comfort than the one they are used to; they’re used to no comfort at all, after all. Something like this feels monumental. The touch of Martin’s hand at the archives had been good. Being able to do that had been… satisfying. As is this, even if it doesn’t _necessarily_ speak anything past platonic intentions asides from the fact that they both know it could be _more._

He has so very little to give, but Martin takes his hand.

“Okay,” he says, and slowly allows himself to grip back at Martin’s hand. Their fingers slot together in a way that is almost shockingly… easy.

“Yeah,” Martin says, just as quiet, but he doesn’t pull away, and neither does Jon.

Eventually, though, as is very _Martin_ in some of the most familiar ways, he does break the silence first. “… your hand’s cold.”

As is also Martin, a knack for stating the obvious. “I’ve been holding a frozen gel pack. _Your_ hand’s sweating.”

“I– well, I’m– it really was too hot, in your room. And I’m, well, I’m _nervous.”_

The admission almost startles Jon when he remembers _how_ they had gotten here. The events of yesterday that had caused this in the first place. They’re being… terribly irresponsible. _He_ is being highly inappropriate, all things considered. “Martin– if this is too much–”

“It’s not,” Martin says quickly. “It’s… good. Really good, actually.” He dares to squeeze Jon’s fingers then, the most gentle pressure that does strange things to Jon’s insides. He wants to scowl at the notion, but there… doesn’t seem to be another way to describe it, really.

“Okay,” he says again, because he doesn’t have anything else to say.

Martin takes a little less time to speak, the next time. “Tim’d really be having at us right now, wouldn’t he? Because we’re… awkward.” He shifts their hands slightly. “We _are_ a bit sad, aren’t we?”

God, he can imagine. He’s really rather glad Tim is _not_ here. “Fitting, I suppose,” he says, sarcastic, and this time, _he_ tightens his hold on Martin’s hand. Fitting, perhaps, but he doesn't yet want to let go.

“Not all of us can be… naturally flirty.”

“Thank _God.”_

He likes the way Martin laughs. He doesn’t know how he hasn’t noticed it before now. Maybe it’s because none of them have much reason to laugh these days. Either way, he does like it, and he’s pleased that he’s able to appreciate it. Better late than never.

“You’re… flirty? In your… own… way?”

It’s his turn to laugh, then, because if there is one thing that he is not, it is _flirty. “Right.”_

“I was being _kind!”_

“Were you?”

“ _Shut up.”_

Jon allows himself to lean his shoulder against Martin’s, even as he shakes his head. ‘Kind’ is a word for it. ‘Pitiful’ is another, but he won’t argue semantics. He also gives up on the ice pack, tossing it to the unoccupied end of the sofa.

“How’s your nose?”

“Less painful when the pills are working. But I _have_ had worse.”

“Right…”

Martin settles in a little against him, and Jon says, “you should get some sleep.”

“You should, too.”

“Hopefully.”

“Yeah.”

It’s silence again, then. The awkwardness lingers, but it isn’t wholly uncomfortable. Just… it is what it is, and Jon decides to leave it at that. They will figure it out eventually, but right now, in the dark at two am, with various amounts of stress on either of their shoulders, this is… nice.

He must fall asleep at some point. He wakes up with Martin slumped against him, clearly fast asleep. His head is more or less on Jon’s shoulder. His hand, resting atop the back of Jon’s now. It’s… comfortable, given how _un_ comfortable the sofa is as a whole. Given how uncomfortable intimacy has had the tendency to be in the past, as a whole.

It’s effort he can barely muster to turn his head and stifle a yawn into his arm. But he doesn’t want to wake Martin. The pass of the pad of his thumb over Martin’s fingers is clumsy. He’s still half asleep himself. So he turns to rest his head against Martin’s again, and lets himself drop back into these comfortable realms of sleep for the time being.

 

 _"With time, you'll come to see that the frantic, broken,_  
_anxious, unhinged version of you was nothing to be_  
_ashamed of. You were simply a kindhearted person_  
_reacting to a very unkind situation."_

**Author's Note:**

> also general disclaimer: some behaviors here aren't good, healthy, and it's not generally advisable to confront a friend's abuser, etc! elsewise love me some soft Jon/Martin... tentative, rebuilding, careful Jon/Martin...


End file.
